by Ben Bova
Finger sat at the head table, flanked by Rita Yearling on one side and the rugged-looking, erstwhile star of the show on the other. Gabriel had been placed halfway across the big dining room, as far removed from Gregory Earnest as possible, and seated at a table of what passed for writers. They were a grubby lot. The high schoolers weren’t allowed to stay up late or drink alcoholic beverages (and marijuana was still illegal in Canada), so they hadn’t been invited. Gabriel sat amid a motley crew of semi-retired engineers who had always wanted to write sci-fi, copyboys and reporters from the area news media who saw their futures in dramaturgy, and one transplanted Yank who had exiled himself to Canada millennia ago and could outwrite the entire staff, when he wasn’t outdrinking them.
Something about Finger’s male “discovery” was bothering Gabriel. His face looked vaguely familiar. Gabriel spent the entire dinner—of rubber chicken and plastic peas—trying to figure out where he had seen the man before. A bit player in some TV series? An announcer? One of the gay blades who’re always hanging around the studios and offices? Maybe a dancer?
None of them seemed to click.
Then, as coffee and joints were passed around by the well-beyond-retirement-age waiters, Finger got to his feet.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here this evening.”
Everyone roared with laughter. Except Gabriel, who clutched his stomach and tried to keep from shrieking.
“Even though I’ve been staying in sunny Southern California . . . .” More canned laughter from the throats of Finger’s lackeys. “ . . . I’ve been keeping a close eye on your work up here. ‘The Starcrossed’ is an important property for Titanic and even though we’re working with an extremely tight budget . . .” Who’s paying for this bash tonight? Gabriel wondered. “ . . . I can assure you that Titanic is doing everything possible to make this show a success.”
Loud applause. Even the media people clapped. Local flaks, Gabriel knew. They want the show to succeed, too.
Finger cocked his head in Gabriel’s direction, like Cary Grant sizing up Katharine Hepburn. “I know we’ve had some troubles in the script department, but I think that’s all been ironed out satisfactorily.” Maybe, Gabriel answered silently.
“And thanks to our foresight in hiring one of the world’s foremost scientists as our technical consultant—Dr. William Oxnard, that is, who unfortunately couldn’t be with us here tonight because he’s literally spending night and day at the studio . . . let’s heard it for Dr. Oxnard . . . .”
They all dutifully applauded while Finger tried to figure out where he was in his speech. “Um, well, as I was saying, we’ve got terrific scientific advice. And we’re going to have the best show, from the technical standpoint, of anything in the industry.” More applause.
“But when you get right down to it, . . .” Finger went on, reaching for a napkin to dab at his brow. The lights were hot, especially under those fur-trimmed robes. “When you get right down to it, what the audience sees is mainly the performers. Sure, the scripts and the sets are important, but those millions of viewers out there, they react to people . . . the performers who perform for them, right there in their living rooms—or bedrooms, whichever the case may be.”
I’ll never make it all the way through this speech without throwing up, Gabriel told himself.
“It’s crucially important to have a pair of brilliant costars,” Finger said, gesturing with the white napkin, “especially for a show like ‘The Starcrossed,’ which is, after all, a show about two young people, lovers, who will captivate the millions of viewers out there.”
Someone broke into enthusiastic applause, found that he was alone, quickly stopped, looked around and slid down in his chair halfway under the table.
Finger glanced in his direction, then resumed. “We are extremely fortunate in having one of the most exciting young new talents in the world to play our feminine lead, our Juliet: Rita Yearling.”
Rita stood up amid a pleasant round of applause and took a cautious bow. Considering the gown she’d been poured into and her cleavage, caution was of utmost importance. She remained standing as Finger went on:
“Isn’t she beautiful? And she can act!” Some laughter; Rita herself smiled tolerantly, while Gabriel squirmed in his chair with indignation for her.
“But although Rita Yearling will be a superstar by the end of the coming season, she’s still relatively unknown to the TV audience. So what we needed, I knew, was a male costar who would be instantly recognizable to the whole world . . . .”
Gabriel found his puzzlement deepening. The guy sitting at Finger’s right side looked vaguely familiar, but Gabriel knew he wasn’t a well-known actor.
“So I went out and got a guy who is known the whole world over,” Finger was at his self-congratulatory best, “and signed him up to play our Romeo, our male lead. And here he is! A superstar in his own right! Francois Dulaq!”
Everyone in the big dining room rose to their feet and roared approval. “Du-laq! Du-laq!” they began chanting. Even the crystal chandeliers started swaying in rhythm with their shouts.
And then it hit Gabriel. Francois Dulaq. The hockey star. The guy who broke Orr’s old scoring record and made the Canadian Maple Stars world champions. They even beat the Russo-Chinese All-Stars, Gabriel remembered from last season’s sportscasts.
A hockey player as the male lead? It’s Buster Crabbe all over again, Gabriel moaned to himself.
He had to climb up on his chair to see what was going on. The crowd was still on its feet, roaring. Dulaq had gone around Finger to where Rita was standing. They put their arms around each other and bared the most expensive sets of teeth in television history for the media cameramen. Finger beamed approvingly.
The expatriate American tugged at Gabriel’s sleeve and yelled over the crowd’s hubbub, “Whaddaya think?”
Gabriel shrugged. “He might be okay. Looks good enough. Probably can’t act worth shit, but he wouldn’t be the first big star who couldn’t act”
Frowning and shaking his head, the expatriate said, “Yeah, but he can’t even speak English.”
Gabriel almost fell off his chair. “What? What’s he speak, French?”
“Nope. Neanderthal.”
Not knowing whether it was a joke or not, Gabriel climbed off his perch and sat down. The crowd settled down, too, as Finger nudged Dulaq to the microphone.
“I wancha t’know,” Dulaq said, “dat I’ll t’row evert’ing I got into dis job . . . jus’ like I t’rew dem body checks inta dem Chinks last May!”
They all roared again. Gabriel sank his head down onto his arms and tried to keep from crying.
At precisely two a.m. Gabriel’s phone buzzed.
He wasn’t sleeping. His trusty suitcase was open on the bed, half filled with his clothes. Since the end of the dinner, Gabriel had spent the night phoning Finger, Montpelier, Brenda, Sam Lipid and anyone else who would listen, telling them that if Dulaq was the male star of the show, they could get themselves another chief writer.
They all argued with him. They cited contracts and clauses. They spoke glowingly of Dulaq’s magnetic personality and star quality and sex appeal. They promised voice coaching and speech therapy and soundtrack dubbing. Still, Gabriel packed his suitcase as he fought with them.
Then his phone buzzed.
Gabriel leaned across the bed and flipped the switch that turned it on. Rita Yearling’s incredibly lovely face appeared on the phone’s screen.
“Hi,” she breathed.
Gabriel hung suspended, stretched across the bed with one foot in his suitcase, tangled in his dirty underwear.
“Hello yourself,” he managed.
Her eyes seemed to widen as she noticed the open suitcase. “You’re not leaving?”
Gabriel nodded. He couldn’t talk.
“Don’t you care about the show?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t you care about me?”
With an effort
, Gabriel said, “I care a lot. Too much to watch you ruin your career before it really starts. That hockey puck of a leading man is going to destroy this show.”
She dimpled at him. “You’re jealous!”
“No,” he said. “Just fed up.”
“Oh, Ron . . . .” Her face pulled together slightly in a small frown.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Gabriel said. “It’s just one battle after another . . . like fighting with a Hydra. Every time I chop off one head, seven more pop up.”
But she wasn’t listening. “Ron . . . you poor sweet boy. Come out onto your balcony. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“On the balcony?”
“Go out and see,” Rita cooed.
Untangling himself from the suitcase, Gabriel padded barefoot to the balcony. He was wearing nothing but his knee-length dashiki and the chill night air cut into him the instant he opened the sliding glass door.
“Surprise!” he heard from over his head.
Looking up, he saw Rita smiling lusciously down at him. She was on the balcony one floor up and one room over from his own. She stood there smiling down at him, clothed in a luminous wisp of a gown that billowed softly in the breeze.
“I took this room for the weekend. I wanted to get away from the suite where B.F. is,” she said.
Ron’s knees went weak. “It is the east,” he murmured, “and Juliet is the sun.”
“This is a lot more fun than talking over the phone, isn’t it?” Rita gave a girlish wriggle. “Like, it’s more romantic, huh?”
Without even thinking about it, Gabriel leaped up on the railing of his own balcony. He stretched and his fingertips barely grazed the bottom of Rita’s balcony.
“Hey! Be careful!”
Gabriel glanced below. Ten floors down, the street lamps glowed softly in the cold night air. Wind whipped at his dashiki and his butt suddenly felt terribly exposed.
“What are you doing?” Rita called, delighted.
He jumped for her balcony. His fingers clutched at the cold cement, then he reached, straining, and grabbed a fistful of one of the metal posts supporting the railing.
His feet dangled in empty air and his dashiki billowed in the wind. Somewhere far back in his mind, Gabriel realized what a ridiculous picture this would present to anyone passing below. But that didn’t matter.
Beads of cold sweat popped out all over his body as he strained, muscles agonized by the unaccustomed effort, hand over hand to the edge of the balcony’s railing. His bare toes found a hold on the balcony’s cement floor at last and he heaved himself, puffing and trembling with exertion, over the railing to collapse at Rita’s feet.
She dropped to her knees beside him. “Ron, darling, are you all right?”
He smiled weakly up at her. “Hiya kid.” It wasn’t Shakespeare, he knew, but it was the best he could manage under the conditions.
They went arm in arm into her hotel room. Rita’s gown was a see-through and Gabriel was busily looking into it.
She sat him down on the edge of the bed. “Ron,” she said, very seriously, “you can’t leave the show.”
“There’s no reason for me to stay,” he said.
“Yes there is.”
“What?”
She lowered her eyelids demurely. “There’s me.”
10: The Director
Mitch Westerly sat scowling to himself behind his archaic dark glasses. The other passengers on the jet airliner shuffled past him, down the narrow aisle, overcoats flopping in their arms and hand baggage banging against the seats and each other.
Westerly ignored them all, just as he had ignored the stewardesses who had recognized him and asked for his autograph. They were up forward now, smiling their mechanical “Have a good day” at the outgoing passengers and sneaking glances at him.
I should never have come back, he thought. This is going to be a bad scene. I can feel it in my karma.
He was neither tall nor particularly handsome, but since puberty he had somehow attracted women without even trying. His face was rugged, weatherbeaten, the face of an oldtime cowboy or mountaineer, even though he had spent most of his life in movie sound stages—and even in Nepal, where he had been for the past two years, he had seen the Himalayas only through very well-insulated windows. His body was broad shouldered, solid, stocky, the kind that goes to fat when you reach forty. But Westerly had always eaten very sparingly and hardly ever drank at all; there was no fat on him.
He wore his standard outfit, a trademark that never changed no matter what the current fashion might be: a pullover sweater, faded denims, boots, the dark shades and a pair of soft leather race driver’s gloves. He had started wearing the gloves many years earlier, when he had been second-unit director on a racing car TV series. The gloves kept him from biting his fingernails, and he rarely took them off. It ruined his image to be seen biting his fingernails.
Finally, all the passengers had left. The plane was empty except for the three stewardesses. The tallest one, who also seemed to be the boss stew, strode briskly toward him, her microskirt flouncing prettily and revealing her flowered underpants.
“End of the line, I’m sorry to say,” she told him.
“Hate to leave,” Westerly said. His voice was as soft as the leather of his gloves.
“I hope you enjoyed the flight.”
“Yeah. Sure did.” And the offers of free booze, the names and numbers your two assistants scribbled on my lunch tray and the note you slipped under the washroom door.
He slowly pulled himself out of the plush seat, while the stewardess reached up into the overhead rack and pulled out his sheepskin jacket.
“Will you be in Toronto for long?” she asked, as they started up the aisle together, with him in the lead.
“Directing a TV series here,” Westerly said, over his shoulder.
“Oh really?” Her voice said How exciting! without using the words. “Will you be staying at the Disney Hilton? That’s where we stay for our layovers.”
That dump. Not even the fleas go there anymore. “Nope. They’ve got us at one of the older places—Inn on the Park.”
“Ohhh. That’s beautiful. A . . . friend, he took me to dinner there once.”
They were at the hatch now. The other two stews were smiling glitteringly at him. With his Himalayan-honed senses he could almost hear them saying, Put me in your TV series. Make me famous. I’ll do anything for that. Glamour, glamour, romance and glamour.
He hesitated at the hatch and made a smile for them. They shuddered visibly. “Y’all come out to the studio when you get a chance. Meet the TV people. Just ask for me at the gate. Anytime.”
“Ohh. We will!”
His smile self-destructed as soon as he turned his back on them and trudged down the connecting tunnel that led into the airport terminal building.
They were at the gate area waiting for him. The photographers, the media newshounds, the newspaper reporters, the lank-haired droopy-mouthed emaciated young women who covered Special Events for the local TV stations and show business magazines, the public relations flaks for Titanic and Badger and Shiva knows who else. They all looked alike, from Bhutan to Brooklyn.
They might be the same people who were at the airport in Delhi . . . and in Rome . . . and in London, Westerly realized with a thrill of horror. My own personal set of devils hounding me wherever I go. Eternally. Hell is an airport terminal!
He kept his head down and refused even to listen to their shouting, pleading questions until the PR flaks—Why are they always balding and desperate faced?—steered him to one of those private rooms with unmarked doors that line the long impersonal corridors of every airport terminal in the world.
The room inside had been set up for a press conference. A table near the door was groaning with bottles of liquor and trays of hors d’oeuvres. A battery of microphones studded a small podium at the front of the room. Folding chairs were neatly arranged in rows.
Inside of three minutes, Westerly
was standing at the podium (which bore the stylized trademark of Titanic Productions, a rakishly angled “T” in which the cross piece was a pair of wings), the hors d’oeuvres were totally demolished, half the booze was gone, the chairs were scattered as if by a tsunami and the PR men were smiling with self-satisfaction.
One of the lank-haired young women was asking, “When you left Hollywood two years ago, you vowed you’d never return. What changed your mind?”
Westerly fiddled with his glasses for a moment. “Haven’t changed my mind,” he said slowly, with just a trace of fashionable West Virginia accent. “Didn’t go back to Hollywood. This is Toronto, isn’t it?”
The news people laughed. But the scrawny girl refused to be embarrassed.
“You said you were finished with commercial films and you were going to seek inner peace; now you’re back. Why?”
Because inner peace comes at eleven-fifty a week at the Katmandu-Sheraton, baby. “I spent two years absorbing the wisdom of the East in the Himalayas,” Westerly replied aloud. “One of the most important things the lamas taught me is that a man should use his inborn talents and use them wisely. My talent is making movies and television shows. It’s my karma . . . my destiny.”
“Didn’t you make a movie in Tibet last year?” asked an overweight, mustachioed reporter.
“Surely did,” said Westerly. “But that was purely for self-expression . . . to help release my soul from its bondage. That film will never be released for commercial viewing.” Not that bomb. Never make that mistake again—hash and high altitudes just don’t mix.
One of the media interviewers, his videotape camera strapped securely to the side of his head, asked, “You left the States right after the Academy Awards dinner, with no explanations at all except that you had to—quote, find yourself, end quote. Why did you turn down the Oscar?”
“Didn’t think I deserved it. A director shouldn’t get an Oscar for his first feature film. There were many other directors who had amassed a substantial body of work who deserved to get an Oscar before Mitch Westerly did.” And the IRS and the Narcs were getting too close; it was no time to show up at a prearranged affair.